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Thieyes to the SkyI am jealousThieyes to the Sky in Free Verse More Like This
of the drunk girls—
their spun candy hair
& peppermint disc eyes.
You kiss them—
tidy them up
in the bathrooms
until they're seeing fires
in midnight's sky
& licking your eyelids
like lollipops.
I am busy sulking
through your things—
diving through the blossoms
of your underwear drawer.
Pinpointing the owner
for each pair hiding
is like trying to find
the owner of a lost tooth
you find on the sidewalk
or figuring out exactly when
you lost your grip
on your heart's mind
& fell into a place
you can't find the exit.
Everyone needs love
& you are looking for it
in every boot on the bar—
For Fear You Would Die Fasteryour attenuate bonesFor Fear You Would Die Faster in Free Verse More Like This
clik clak
clak
against each other
against my anklespooled
in the foot of this sleeping bag
they summon up
eighty-eight goose-bumps taught to sing
evanescence in the summer(.)
we loved.
now: see-
through skin
for your viewing pleasurereasoning with irresponsible tendons
writhing cos we were we are one
typewriter with two dry
mouths,
fifty-six detac
hed teeth
"never more than one hundred hand breadths apart and never more"
Conversations in the Rain"At least put up your umbrella. Seriously—you'll catch your death out here,"Conversations in the Rain in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I turn to look at her, give her a withering look, and turn away. I lift and relax my shoulder blades, settling my jacket more snugly about me. The raindrops that cling to the water-resistant fabric scatter with the movement and, for a moment, I'm surrounded by a silvery halo. Then the little droplets fall and burst against the pavement at my feet, and the moment's gone.
There's an umbrella in my pack, of course. I should use it, probably. It's an old wives' tale that getting cold and wet will make you sick, but I'd never been able to convince her of that. She
Lackland"Drop it,"Lackland in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"You drop it,"
"I'm the one with the gun, missy,"
"Yeah, and your jugular's right under my knife," I press a little harder, showing him how much I mean it.
"You bit?"
"Do I look infected to you?"
He sighs.
"Never was much for killing kids," He mutters, lowering the shotgun he'd had trained on my chest. He drops it carefully and nudges it towards me with one foot.
"I'm not a kid," I tell him—not whining, just telling. I don't pick up the shotgun, just kick it a little farther away from him. Not as if I've ever known how to handle a gun, anyway. I'm more likely to shoot my foot off before I hit anything.
After a few sec
Back?Sort of?Back? in Personal More Like This
I'm not sure.
But I was sorting through my inbox, and in that vast sea of unread poetry and prose, I noticed a certain theme. Or rather, a certain phrase. There was a lot of "I wonder"-ing.
I wonder lots of things, so I couldn't resist a bit of navel-gazing of my own. I'm not making light of anybody else's musings, of course. Only my own. Some of my thoughts aren't meant for civilized conversation. That's why I keep them locked safely in my head where they can do minimal damage.
It's not my best and brightest, I'm sure. Also not meant for young audiences, really. But it's something. Hopefully an inaugural something. It's nearly a new school year and maybe (maybe maybe maybe) my hiatus (hah. joke. I was in and out all summer) is over.
Question mark.
Loves <3
Oh, also! There are links in the comments of that latest prose piece. They're worth a look. Promise ^^
Sta.sh
